


"We have a war to win."

by InTooManyFandomsRay



Series: 50 DAYS DIALOGUE PROMPTS [10]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), BAMF Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Can be platonic or romantic, Canon-Typical Violence, Depressed Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gen, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), POV Merlin (Merlin), Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Violence, You Decide, can be pre relationship, idek, its only arthur being bamf, there is no ending tbh, there is no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29269173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTooManyFandomsRay/pseuds/InTooManyFandomsRay
Summary: Arthur and Merlin ride through a town that is burnt to the ground by slave traders. This is what happens after.Set somewhere between S3 and S4. But hints at Merlin and Arthur learning to be comfortable around each other and becoming friends.
Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: 50 DAYS DIALOGUE PROMPTS [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2129253
Kudos: 35





	"We have a war to win."

**Author's Note:**

> Only angst, i'm sorry

Ashen ground greeted the boots of whoever walked through the aftermath. A single breeze whipped by, creating a whistle in the silent air. Somewhere under the rubble, there was a little boy with his arm broken, and neck bent weirdly. All he wanted to do was find his doll. The doll now lay tattered and in pieces on the side of the road.

The knights of Camelot have been through enough war to now steel their hearts to see through the carnage. They rode through the broken town which lay burnt and brazen, a stark difference to the lush green forest surrounding it. The knights only hung their heads in shame, praying for the souls they failed to save. Prince Arthur held his face high, even with tears stroking his dirty cheeks. If anybody was paying him any close attention, they would’ve seen the way his eyes hardened at the sight of the doll, and when he picked it up, he did it so softly. Like it would scatter away in the wind if he gripped it tighter.

Merlin was not a knight. Nor was he a prince. He had not seen such brutal death in his life, except for when Uther burned his kin on the cursed pyre. He held no qualms regarding being vocal about his anger, his pain, and his overall displeasure. So nobody blamed him when he took one look at the burned body of a mother melded with her child and spewed his breakfast on his side.

The ride back home was silent and heavy. Slave traders had raided this once joyful village for their own pleasure and left it but a mere speck on the map. Merlin couldn’t help but think about his own village, Ealdor, and how it would look like with a similar fate. The outcome left a stone in his heart and he emptied his stomach once again.

They camped near a stream, and although there was enough fish for Merlin to catch, he did not want any more blood on his hands. Even if it was marine. He made the fire using stones, not caring to use his magic. Then, he prepared a simple berry stew for the knights and his prince and sank in his blanket for unobtainable warmth. The knights huddled around the fire, the flames highlighting the marble in their eyes and the shadows under them. The air whispered of ghosts around them, and they dare not break through the whispers, for fear it would anger the souls.

They ate in silence, the only sound in the air of the nature around them – the magic thrumming through the Earth, the gushing of waves in the streams, and the leaves singing in the wind. Arthur sat next to Merlin, both too afraid to say anything, and too anxious to not say something. And so they pretended to sleep in the same silence, facing away from each other but knowing that Arthur is as awake as Merlin is himself.

When giving the report to Uther the next day, Merlin sees how tightly drawn in Arthur’s shoulders are. He sees the rigidity in his stance as he tells the King that the sorcerer’s village was burned to the ground, and the sorcerer probably with it. He sees how Arthur talks in clipped tones, hands held back so tight, Merlin is afraid they’ll bleed. And it is only when they’re back in the safety of Arthur’s chambers that the Prince allows himself to break, shoulders shaking with grief as he buries his head in Merlin’s shoulders, seeking comfort and forgiveness in his friend.

And who is Merlin to deny him that?

That night, he draws Arthur a warm bath. Arthur has gone back into his shell, his face appearing much older than someone who is only two and twenty. He stood there still, as Merlin unlaced his tunic and slipped it over his head. The only acknowledgment he gave Merlin was placing his hands on his shoulders when Merlin went on his knees to remove the laces from his breeches and stepped out of them.

He let himself be guided to his bath, which was perfectly warm, like always. But it didn’t provide him the comfort he needed.

“Scrub my back,” he instructed Merlin, who dutifully obliged. Merlin knew Arthur, and when to quip back and when not to. This was one such moment, where he knew better than to say anything. Sometimes actions spoke a million times better than words.

Merlin lathered the soap over Arthur’s back, and scrubbed softly, kneading his palms on the tension accumulated in the young Prince’s shoulders. Slowly, Arthur relaxed into his touches. Merlin rubbed the base of Arthur’s neck with his thumb, applying enough pressure to have Arthur sigh in content. This went on for a while, Merlin massaging Arthur’s shoulders and back and Arthur finding peace in Merlin’s tender touches. When all was done and Arthur was tucked into his clothes and in his bed, they whispered soft goodnights before Merlin departed.

The next few days held a similar pattern. Arthur would argue with his father about sorcery and innocent lives, and the King would give it back tenfold, forgetting that was his own son. And after, Arthur would sometimes let himself be comforted by Merlin. Other times, he was in his own thoughts and his own shell. During that time, he spent his energy in training. When there were no more dummies to whack his sword into, for he had broken them all, Arthur turned to train his knights harder than ever.

Merlin’s eyes would follow his every movement as he hashed out his moves, striking each blow with intent to kill and the grace at which he blocked the opponent’s attacks. The prince was strong, and graceful, and  _ tired _ . The weariness hung in his eyes, even though the blue in them was hardened and plagued with nightmares. Merlin could emphasize with him. Even though it was the first time he had seen such destruction on a massive scale, his night terrors only grew, and he sported his own black circles of lack of sleep.

Finding familiarity in each other, Merlin and Arthur grew close like moths to a flame. It wasn’t long before they considered each other as equals, in friendship, and in counsel.

And then Morgana attacked.

It was Uther’s time to withdraw into his shell as Morgana and Cenred’s army waged war at the borders. Merlin stood next to Arthur, and in front of the knights, who regarded each other gravely. This was the end. The war ground was running rivers of blood, both friend and foe.

Each heart was hardened, and it was evident by the impersonal way the knights gazed on the maps, which was being drawn and retraced by Arthur’s hand. The tent’s curtains are flapping in the breeze as they discuss strategies in hushed tones.

They all looked at Arthur, the torches casting shadows on his battle-worn face. Each knight devoted to his duty, ready to lay down their lives for him, and for Camelot. Arthur turned his face to Merlin, only to find greater devotion and confidence in his sharp features. In Merlin’s azure eyes, he found love and trust. He would not let down his people, nor the warlock who stood beside him through thick and thin, who forgave him for his crimes. He thought of the black village he rode into two years ago, the charred doll he cradled with his hands. He remembered the loss, the grief. Arthur held the lives of his people in his hands as he spoke his words. He had no time for worship.

“Well then, gentlemen. We have a war to win.”


End file.
